


The Monster Under the Bed Likes Colouring Books

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Brother Feels, Colouring Books, Gen, Kid!Eridan, Mentioned OCD, Monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a monster under your bed.</p><p>You’re not sure how long he’s been there, but you know he’s been watching you. He’s big and tall, and has grey skin and candy corn coloured horns. His eyes are the same color as violets and broken egg yolks, and they stare at you from under the bedskirt sometimes when you’re getting ready for school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> chapter one?? > maybe?? unbeta'd and unedited and posted right after wisdom teeth removal surgery so no guarantees on quality

There’s a monster under your bed.

 

You’re not sure how long he’s been there, but you know he’s been watching you. He’s big and tall, and has grey skin and candy corn coloured horns. His eyes are the same color as violets and broken egg yolks, and they stare at you from under the bedskirt sometimes when you’re getting ready for school.

 

Most kids would be afraid of monsters under the bed, you think, but he doesn’t really seem all that scary- just bored. You’d be bored too if you were stuck under someone’s bed all the time; there can’t be very many things to do under there, after all.

 

“Cro?”

 

Your older brother is the very best person in the world, and when you say his name he looks up from his homework and smiles- a special smile you only ever see when you’re alone. He’s in his room, at his desk, and the one table lamp casts shadows over his face and the floor beyond the small circle of light.

 

“Hey, kiddo, what’s up?”

 

“There’s a monster under my bed.”

 

His smile melts from his face, dripping into a frown like ice cream on a hot day; he looks so tired, so unhappy, that you almost regret saying anything for a moment. With a sigh, he reaches out and scoops you into his arms, holding you close as if his presence alone could defeat any monsters that dared come after you. You have no doubt that he could; he’s strong and good and any monster would cower before him, like a dragon before a knight in shining, flame-resistant armour. Even though knights wearing armor to fight dragons is dumb, because armor is made of metal and metal is a heat conductor; obviously knights are not very good at science.

 

“C’mon Eri, you know monsters aren’t real. Aren’t you a bit old for bogymen?” he says, sighing, "There’s nothing to be afraid of, alright? Please, I gotta finish this before I go to work-“

 

“He’s not scary,” you interrupt, patting your brother on the face with one of your small hands, because _wow_ your hands really are small compared to his; he has really big hands, and you think he could probably hold you up with just one of them.

 

 “I think he’s just bored. Do we have any coloring books or something? What do monsters like to do?”

 

You twist your face into your most _terrifying_ scowl when Cro laughs at you, but you secretly like it when he does. He looks less tired when he laughs.

 

“Only you, kid. There should be some stuff in my closet, why don’t you go shove that under your bed? Have fun.”

 

He puts you down, but not before hugging you tight; you wrap your arms around his neck and hug back and wince when you feel how much he shakes. He doesn’t smoke anymore, not since he took you to the doctor and they’d given you something called an _in-ha-ler_ to use when your chest got all tight and gross, but you know sometimes he really, really wants to, and you feel bad that he can’t. You are the reason he can't do something that used to make him feel better even if it was something that smelled really terrible and made him smell terrible and his clothes smell terrible- 

 

It still made him feel better and now he can't do it because of you. So instead of bringing it up and making him feel worse, instead of asking him if he's okay and fussing at him, you just bite your lip and say ‘I love you’; he ruffles your hair, says it back, and pushes you towards the closet, telling you to go find things to entertain your monster. You grab a few coloring books, and some of the stories Cro never reads anymore- the ones about magic and adventures and other really cool stuff- and you run back to your room, dumping your armful next to your bed.

 

You’re not really sure how to announce yourself to your monster, but you figure it’s always best to be polite, so you knock on the wood floor and say, “Hello?”

 

Nothing. You wonder of your monster has somewhere else to go during the day.

 

“Hellooooo…"

 

There! One single violet-and-egg-yolk eye peeks out at you, round and wide and glowing slightly, like the night light you’d never admit you still have plugged in right next to your bed.

 

“You’ve been under there for a long time, so I got you some stuff in case you’re bored,” you say, pushing the things towards your monster. He reaches out, slow, and carefully extends a hand tipped in sharp, lethal looking claws, grey skin muted and dull underneath the single lamp in your own room.

 

“For me?” he asks, voice low and rumbly, like thunder right after the crash, and when you nod, he scoops the pile closer, picking through it with careful claws.

 

“Thank you,” he says, poking his head out a bit further, enough for you to see his dark hair and the lightning bolt horns, “It does get a little boring under here, sometimes.”

 

You ask him if he wants to color with you, and he nods, looking a bit bemused, like no one’s ever asked him to color before. You think that’s very sad, and you let him have first pick of your crayons.

 

You love your crayons. You’d gotten the huge box, the one with all the colours, from your art teacher because you won the drawing contest at school. You’re super careful with them, and you keep all of them pre-cise-ly ordered and sharpened, because there is nothing worse than having a crayon in the wrong spot. It makes you itch, and you don’t like it, not at all.

 

He picks black, and starts filling the spaces, every move slow and thought out. He moves very deliberately, and you think it’s because he’s a monster, big and strong and powerful, and he could probably break things if he moves too fast.

 

“What’s your name?” you ask, picking purple- your very favorite colour- and begin working on your own picture, “Mine’s Eridan.”

 

“I am the Orphaner,” he intones, and though he looks quite serious you think he might be teasing you.

 

“That can’t be your name,” you respond, and trade him the red for the black, “That’s a- a title, not a name. Do you gotta name?”

 

“Do I have a name,” he corrects, and, dutifully, you repeat, “Do you have a name?”

 

He stops, thinking, before he nods, even more slow than before.

 

“I suppose you are correct. You can address me as Dualscar, if you so desire.”

 

“Du-al-scar,” you repeat, sounding the name out, “Are you called that ‘cause you got- ‘cause you have two scars on your face?”

 

He smiles when you correct yourself, revealing sharp, brilliantly white teeth, pointed and slightly ridged, like a shark’s. You like sharks.

 

“That is correct. You are quite intelligent, for your age.”

 

“You must know a bunch’a really dumb seven year olds, then, ‘cause that’s kinda obvious.”

 

You spend the rest of your hour awake coloring pictures with your monster, talking quietly, so as not to disturb your brother, who only has this hour to finish all of his homework before his shift at the club starts. When Cro comes to get you ready for bed, though, your monster nods at you, pats you very, very carefully on the hand, and disappears back under your bed, leaving the picture behind.

 

“Did you have fun coloring with your monster?” Cro asks, smiling, and even though you can see the tired slump of his shoulders, he still picks you up and carries you to the bathroom, brushing your hair for you while you brush your teeth and babble about Du-al-scar the Or-phan-er, the monster under your bed, and how he’s good at coloring and has six syllables in his name- not counting the the- which is your favorite number.

 

You can tell he doesn’t believe you, but that’s ok. Cro has a hard time believing in things he can’t see and touch, it’s just the way he is. Maybe Dualscar will let you introduce him to Cro one day, then you can all sit on the floor and color together.

 

You let Cro finish helping you get ready for bed, and, when he tucks you in, you hug him tight and tell him you love him because it always cheers him up and he looks really sad and tired right now. He clings to you, carding one hand through your hair, and tells you he loves you back, pressing a kiss to your head.

 

“I’ll take you to school tomorrow, ok? Do you have your alarm set?”

 

You nod, and he gives you one more pat on the head before he leaves, turning your light out on the way out the door.

 

“Goodnight,” you yawn, and, to your delight, a deep, rumbly voice replies, “Goodnight, child.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

This time, when you see that violet-and-egg-yolk eye peeking out from user the bed, you wave and say, “Good morning.”

 

It’s currently 7am, and you’re getting yourself ready for school, because if you do it then it gives Cronus a bit more time to sleep, and even though you’re only seven, you know that the more sleep Cro gets, the better.

 

You’re overjoyed when a huge, clawed hand sticks itself out from under the bed and waves back, though there isn’t a verbal response. You get ready in comfortable silence, only interrupted when Dualscar, voice hoarse and tired, rumbles, “Don’t forget your homework,” while pointing to the math sheet you’d spent hours struggling with last night.

 

You thank him, because if you’d left that at home, after all the work you’d put into it, you probably would have cried.

 

He also scoots your backpack across the floor to your feet with one long arm, and you pat his cold, slightly clammy skin and say, “I gotta go to school, see you later. It’s okay if you color without me, as long as you put the crayons back in the right spot.”

 

Then it’s off to Cro’s room, to wake him up. He probably only got home a few hours ago, but the bus doesn't come to your neighborhood and he doesn’t want you taking it anyways, so you carefully shake him awake.

 

“’S’it already school time?” he says, voice muffled by pillows, and you nod and tell him yes, it is, and you’re going to be late if he doesn’t get up. You can’t afford to be late anymore- your teachers have been quite upset with your number of tardies, lately, and you’re not supposed to tell them Cro can’t always get you to school on time because he works night shifts.

 

There are a lot of things Cro doesn’t want you telling the teachers, ‘cause he thinks he’ll get in trouble if you do. You aren’t really sure why, because he’s a really good brother and takes really, really good care of you, but he tells you that things have to stay a secret for adult reasons and that if you tell anyone, you might get taken away.

 

You like living with Cro, and you don’t want to get taken away, even if sometimes Father comes home and Cro locks you in the bathroom, but you’re not supposed to tell anyone about that, either.

 

Cro’s school building is right next to yours, separated by administrative offices, so he parks in his parking lot and walks you to your class, letting you hold his hand the entire way. You don’t care if the other kids tease you for being a baby and not being able to walk by yourself; you love Cro and don’t mind getting made fun of, if you can make him smile that weird way he does when half his mouth goes up, the way that he does when he’s really happy.

 

“Gotta go, kid, have a good day.”

 

You hug him around the legs and laugh when he pretends you’re too heavy to move, and pat him on the face when he kisses your hair. Then he leaves and you’re left alone, and its the one of the worst parts of the day because in the ten minutes before class starts there’s no supervision. It sort of reminds you of one of those nature shows Cro puts on TV sometimes, with the hyenas and the baby gazelle- and you’re the gazelle.

 

The other kids at school don’t like you very much. You aren’t really sure why; as far as you know, you haven’t done anything to them, but they still make fun of you, whether it’s because of your glasses, your inhaler, the white spot in your hair, or the scarf you wear all the time, even when it’s hot.

 

Your mama gave you the scarf before she left- it’s soft and way too long, striped blue and purple, your favorite colours, and it doesn’t really smell like her perfume anymore but sometimes when you’re sick and gross and can’t breathe right, you cover your face with it and pretend she’s still here with you and Cro.

 

You refuse to go anywhere without the scarf. It’s like your good luck charm; you don’t feel good going anywhere without it, and the one time you forgot to wash it and Cro wouldn’t let you bring it to school you got a stomachache, failed your math test, and had an asthma attack on the playground during recess. Now you feel weird leaving the house without it, like your stomach gets all trembly and you feel sick, and so Cro always makes sure it’s washed and hanging up by the door.

 

Now, you bury your face in your good luck charm and walk through the doors of the school building, shoulders hunched, hoping that no one will notice you because you don’t want to get into any trouble so early in the morning, not when you’re actually on time for once. Thankfully, you make it to your classroom without any problems, and you are, in fact, the first one to sit at your desk.

 

Mrs. Leijon is the homeroom and math teacher, and she’s as nice as nice can be. Sometimes, you wonder if your mama was anything like Mrs Leijon, because she has two daughters, one about your age, and from what you’ve seen, she loves them very, very much.

 

Cro told you your mama loved you just as much, but she had to go away, and she couldn’t come back. When you asked why she didn’t take you both with her, he just hugged you and cried and told you it just wasn’t possible, and you never asked again. You don’t like it when Cronus cries, it makes you want to cry too, and then both of you are just big piles of messy tears and you don’t like it. Cro needs to smile more, not be sad, so you try to avoid asking about things that you know will make him unhappy.

 

You fish around in your backpack and pull out the homework for your first class, which is math. You don’t like math, you’re terrible at it, but you still try really hard and Mrs. Leijon is super helpful, so it’s not as bad as it could be. You’re the best at word problems, cause it’s easy to tell what they want you to do when they write it out for you, but solid number problems are hard. Your homework usually takes forever to finish ‘cause you’re busy re-writing everything into a word problem, so you can figure it out easier.

 

This time around, though, you get almost all the problems right, which is awesome cause it’s one more thing to tell Cro when he picks you up from school. He’s always worried about your math grades, and since he’s not very good at math either, sometimes he has a hard time helping you with homework.

 

English and history fly by, and you get a 110% on your history quiz, because you got both the bonus questions right too. History and science and your favorite subjects besides art and music, but the other kids tell you those aren’t real school subjects so they don’t count. It makes you kind of sad, because you’re the best at music, cause Cro teaches you a little bit almost every single day, so you can already play the piano and you can sort of play the guitar. The guitar’s harder cause your fingers are too small to hit all the strings, though.

 

Then, of course, is the worst time of the day.

 

Lunch and recess are your least favorite parts about school. The other kids don’t like you, and won’t let you play with them because you’re weird and you’re good at history. They think you’re a dumb little kid cause you think magic is real, but if magic isn’t real then how would you explain Dualscar? Or so many other things? Just because they don’t see things the way you do isn’t a good reason for them to tease you, but the last time you said that they made you taste the mud pie they made, and now you don’t have to go to recess anymore.

 

Lunch, you still have to attend. You get in trouble for skipping, and when you get in trouble, they call Cro and he gets even more stressed and unhappy than usual, so you do your best not to do anything that would cause him to get called into the principal's office. Unfortunately, that means sitting by yourself at a lunch table in the corner of the room, and getting picked on by the other kids.

 

Some of them are decent, like Feferi, who sometimes plays with you when no one else is around, and Karkat, who is angry and tiny and yells at everyone, not just you, so you don’t feel singled out, but it’s not enough to make up for Sollux, Kanaya, and Nepeta, who is as mean as her mother is nice. You might have been mean to her first though, so that’s sort of your fault.

 

They like pushing you around and stealing your stuff, which really isn’t nice because you don’t have much to begin with. Cro tells you that you aren’t eligible for the free lunch program, so you have to make do with what he makes you, but there isn’t a lot of food in the house so your lunches are always pretty small. They’re even smaller after Sollux steals the special treats Cro always goes out of his way to get, just for you. Most of the time, he doesn’t even eat them, he just throws them away cause he thinks they’re icky and that no one should eat them; it’s not your fault he doesn’t like anything that isn’t chicken nuggets and honey sticks, and he shouldn’t take it out on you either.

 

But, because you don’t want to cause any problems, you stay still and don’t do anything when he pushes you around. You’re used to it, and you’re not even that bothered by all the insults anymore, so it’s not that hard to just tune him out. Kanaya is harder. She scares you, and once she said she wanted to cut you in half like her mother does to people, but you think she might have just been teasing. You hope she was just teasing, cause Kanaya isn’t a doctor like her mother is, so you don’t think she would bother sewing you back together again afterwards.

 

Lunch drags by super slow, and despite your corner table you’re still caught out by Sollux and his group of friends. Karkat ends up coming to your rescue, though you think it might have been unintentional, and the yelling was a bit much but it allowed you time to escape and run down the hall to Mr Makara’s office.

 

After the mud pie in-ci-dent, the teachers stopped making you go to recess if you promised to see the school counselor instead. At first, you really didn’t want to, because Mr. Makara is huge and really, really scary, but after the first couple of visits you realized that he’s not even half as bad as the kids who make fun of you, plus he doesn’t make you eat mud pies. In fact, he even keeps a box of snacks in his office just for you- and you know they’re just for you cause you don’t think anyone else besides maybe Cronus likes seaweed chips, and pretzel goldfish, which Cro insists are actually made of cardboard.

 

You like them, however, and pretend you’re a gigantic monster eating normal sized fish. You wonder if Dualscar can swallow a fish whole.

 

Speaking of goldfish, Mr. Makara has just handed you a cupful, probably well aware your lunch had been ripped up and discarded by the other students. He’s nice, despite his large, looming size, and his son, Gamzee, is one of the few kids that actually seems to like you, so you don’t feel too uncomfortable around him, even though he’s bigger than you. You don’t think he’s bigger than Dualscar, though; Dualscar is huge, you can tell, even if he’s never crawled all the way out from under your bed.

 

But Mr. Makara is nice, gives you snacks, and lets you draw on his arms with sharpie when you’ve had a really bad day, on the blank spots between all his other tattoos. Cronus always talks about how cool they are, and how much he wants some of his own, but he’s not old enough to get any yet, you know, you’ve asked.

 

Today hasn’t been terrible, though, so you content yourself with paper and pencil and neatly ordered crayons, placed by size and color in sets of six, just like how they should be.

 

“How’ve you been?”

 

Mr. Makara has a deep, growly voice, kind of like Dualscar’s, but it reminds you more of a bear or a wolf than rolling thunder. He’s also got an accent, and he says it’s cause he comes from the deep south. You’re not actually sure where that is, but it sounds cool.

 

“I’ve been okay,” you reply, using the tiny black crayon to outline your drawing, “I got a 110% on my history quiz, and I got eight out of ten right on my math homework.”

 

“Can you tell me what score ya got, then?”

 

Eight out of ten is equivalent to… to… you multiply ten by ten and eight by ten and that’s…

 

“Eighty?”

 

Mr. Makara raises his hand very seriously, and you grin as you give him a high five. You are the best. You solved that all by yourself, and in your head, besides.

 

You switch out the black for the grey, and carefully color in the lines you’d laid down.

 

“Any problems with any of the other brats?”

 

And this is where it gets hard. You never wanna tell on anyone, because even though the adults say it’s okay, telling just makes everything worse, but Mr. Makara is weird and big and for some reason you never wanna keep secrets from him. So you bite your lip and carefully place the grey crayon back in its place before grabbing the purple, and nod, slowly.

 

“Sollux stole my peanut-butter’n-pretzel sandwiches again,” you say, voice soft, trying to focus more on the picture than the words coming out of your mouth, “He threw ‘em away cause he thinks they’re gross, but they’re really good! Cro made them himself, just for me, and he was up really late working on them, and they were even shaped like little fish, too, and Sol just threw ‘em away!”

 

“That wasn’t very nice of ‘im.”

 

“No, it was very mean,” you huff, pressing down a little harder on your crayon, “But you can’t tell anyone else, okay? If you tell, they’ll know I told and it’ll get even worse! So please keep it a secret?”

 

You stare up at him with pleading eyes, the ones that you know always get Cro to go to sleep or take a day off from work or play with you, and Mr. Makara’s face gets all gooshy and he pats you on the head, his hand covering almost all of your messy hair.

 

“I promise. As long as you at least tell me, okay? I’m a big secret keeper, you can tell me whatever you want.”

 

You nod, and trade out purple for yellow, orange, and red. You know you can’t tell him whatever you want, because there are things Cronus made you promise never to tell anyone, but you know you can talk to Mr. Makara about things that happen at school, and things that happen at home that Cro hasn’t begged you to keep quiet about. You might only be seven, but you’re aware that if you get taken away from Cro, you might not ever see him again, and that’s the worst thing you think could possibly happen.

 

“What are you drawin’?"

 

“Dualscar the Orphaner,” you say, carefully filling in the candy corn horns, “He’s a monster who lives under my bed. He’s nice, though.”

 

“A nice monster?”

 

“Yeah, we coloured before Cro had to- before Cro made me go to bed last night.”

 

Mr. Makara looks at your picture very, very closely, before nodding and handing you another small cup of pretzel fish.

 

“Very good job. It’s like you’re gettin’ better every day, kid. You’ve got about five more minutes before the class bell rings, why don’t you finish up your snack and your picture and then go get your things?”

 

You grin and finish coloring, shoveling down your snack and running out the door, waving as you go. The class right after lunch is science, and science is amazing, just as amazing as history is, but in different ways. History tells you how things were, what happened and why, and science tells you how things are, explaining everything and making it all clear. They’re your favorite subjects because you like knowing why and how, and what for, but sometimes you ask too many questions and everyone gets annoyed with you. Your textbooks don’t explain things well enough, so you bug and whine and wheedle until someone, anyone, gives you explanations that aren’t provided to you by the school, and with Cronus’s help you have at least three library books checked out at any given time.

 

You like learning. You know you aren’t the smartest person in the school, you aren’t even the smartest person in the class- that award goes to Terezi- but when you study your two favorite subjects, you feel like a genius.

 

After science is music, and after music is art, which, of course, only makes your day better because the art teacher gives you a sticker for your new painting and the music teacher lets you play around with the piano, and gives you a piece of candy when you show her the new song Cro taught you. Gamzee, one of the nicer kids in your class, even gives you a high five and juggles recorders while you play the old carnival song Cro taught you the week before, and smiles at you when he gets in trouble for it.

 

You like to think you could be friends with Gamzee, maybe.

 

Of course, after that, school is over, and you go sit in Mr. Makara’s office until Cro gets out of class. His school lasts longer than yours does, because he has more classes than you, but you don’t mind too much- it gives you a chance to get a head start of some of your homework, and Mr. Makara is always fun to talk to. This time, though, Gamzee’s there too, which is weird because he usually prowls the hallways with Karkat after school.

 

“What’s up, li’l fish?”

 

When he first called you that, you thought he was teasing you, but… you’ve come to realize Gamzee is kind of a strange little kid, even compared to you, and that he’s actually being friendly when he calls you weird names.

 

“No-nothin' much,” you murmur, and wonder when you got a stutter. You’ve always had issues with your w’s and v’s, Cro does too, he says it’s a gen-e-tic thing, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying, especially since it appears to be spreading.

 

Gamzee sits down next to you, draped across one of the beanbag chairs his dad has scattered across the councilor’s office. He looks kind of like a cat, the way he sprawls out, like he’s got no spine, arms and legs akimbo, and it makes you giggle because he kind of looks ridiculous.

 

Mr. Makara barks something about proper posture, but Gamzee just smiles lazily and slouches even further, ending up almost upside down in the squishy chair.

 

You don’t think you could ever disobey Father like that. You hardly ever see him, but when you do, he’s angry and loud and smells funny and Cro told you to always listen to him and never talk back, because bad things happen when you talk back. Usually, when your Father comes home, Cro locks you in his room or the bathroom and doesn’t let you out until your Father is gone or until you can go stay at one of his friend’s houses, so you don’t really have much of an opportunity to ever say no.

 

You think that’s not really normal, but you don’t have much to go off on.

 

“Cool, man. Hey, you wanna help me with this history stuff? I don’t really get it, not one motherfuckin’ bit.”

 

Mr. Makara snarls about language, you little fuck, but Gamzee just grins at you, smile all sloppy, and waves a slightly crumpled worksheet in your direction.

 

“’S’cool if you don’t, just thought I’d ask. You seem real good at this stuff.”

 

You shrug and pull the worksheet towards you. He’s in your class, and you’re all learning about con-flict re-so-lu-tion, or how to solve problems and how other places and times solved problems. You like conflict resolution; it’s really interesting to learn about all the rules and stuff ancient societies had, and how they enforced them- plus, it has six syllables.

 

You spend all your time until Cronus picks you up working on the history worksheet, stuttering out explanations for Gamzee as you teach him how to recognize the different methods for identifying con-ver-gent and la-ter-al thinking- not the exact words they used, but easier for you to explain, because the idea behind the concepts are the same, but the words you learned from the history text you checked out of the library explains things much more thoroughly.

 

By the time Cro gets to Mr. Makara’s office, Gamzee is nodding along excitedly, filling out answers by himself, and you think he gets it enough for you to focus on your own sheet, neatly filled out in your weird, tiny writing. Gamzee writes like he’s trying to fill up the entire page with as few words as possible, but your letters are small and long and slanted to the left, because you’re weird and you write with your left hand instead of your right one.

 

“Get a lotta homework done, Eri?”

 

Cro waves at you from the doorway and you throw your things in your bag and jump at his legs, giggling when he picks you up and spins you around. He looks a little less tired than he did this morning, which means he probably took a nap during lunch and study hall- you’re too old for naps, but Cro told you that when you’re older, naps are a prize and not a punishment. Teenagers are weird.

 

“Was helpin’ Gamzee with his history,” you reply, and he grins and ruffles your hair, cooing about what a smart little nerd you are, and you push his face away, sticking your tongue out at him because sometimes he’s just so weird.

 

“No problems today, I hope?” he says instead, and you think he’s talking to you but then Mr. Makara stands up to his full height, looming over the both of you, and shakes his head, reaching out to ruffle up Cronus’s own head of slicked back hair. Hah. Serves him right.

 

“Nothin’, nothin’ at all,” he rumbles, winking at you, and you blink back because winking is hard and you don’t quite have the hang of it yet.

 

You yelp, however, when your hair is attacked by a surprise hand, messed up beyond all hope of fixing, and when you turn to express your dis-pleas-ure at the person responsible, you almost swallow your tongue.

 

Kurloz is Gamzee’s brother and a friend of Cro’s, but sometimes he really freaks you out. He’s got piercings that go through his lips, and he doesn’t ever talk, ever, and he doesn’t wear face paint at school but the few times Cronus has asked them to watch you, you swear you’ve seen his face painted like a skeleton.

 

“We’ll be headin' out, then. Thanks for looking after him, Mr. Makara.”

 

“Ugh, I told you not to call me that,” the older man grumbles, running his own hands through his big, poofy mess of hair, “I am definitely not old enough to be called Mr. Makara. It’s bad enough all these little brats call me Mr. Makara, don’t you start on it too, ya little piece’a cowshit.”

 

Cro laughs.

 

“Of course, Mr. Harlem, whatever you say. Gotta get home and make sure the brat does the rest of his homework, though. Thanks again.”

 

You make Cro put you down before walking out of Mr. Makara’s office, but you let him hold your hand. You like being carried by Cro, but there’s a limit to what you’re willing to let the other kids in your class see, and make fun of you for, and you getting carried around like a baby by your older brother is past that limit.

 

Either way, Sollux still sniggers at you when you walk by, but you ignore him and focus on telling Cronus about your day at school, leaving out all the parts you know will only upset him.  He’s just as excited as you were about the score you received on your math homework, and he promises you something extra special for dinner tonight because of your 110% in history.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The drive home is quiet, only Cro’s music playing in the background, and he’s warm and comfy when you lean up against him, one of his arms around your shoulders and the other holding the steering wheel steady. You’re too old for naps but you do still get tired, and Cro is just the right temperature and consistency to make, like, the best pillow _ever_ , so it’s hard to stay awake, especially with The Smiths crooning in the background. 

 

“What do you want for dinner, Eri? I got paid yesterday, so I picked up some groceries on my way home last night.”

 

You rub your head against his side and yawn, shrugging. 

 

“Fish noodles?”

 

“Fish noodles it is, then. You work on your homework first thing, okay? I’ll call you down for dinner when it’s done.”

 

When you get home, you go upstairs right away, and to your delight, Dualscar pokes his head out from under your bed to greet you. You’d missed your monster friend and, when you tell him so, and that you’d like to colour with him again, he gets the same look on his face that he had when you asked him to color with you the first time _.  _

 

And then he gets a stern look on his face, the same kind Cronus wears when you try to wheedle him to do something he knows you aren’t supposed to do. You gulp. 

 

“You just got home from school, correct?” he says, voice rasping across your ears like sandpaper over wood, deep and strong, “Am I mistaken when I assume you have homework?”

 

You pout, and shake your head. 

 

“I’m almost done with most’a it,” you say, voice pitched in such a way that it could be called a whine, but never by you.

 

“Most of it isn’t all of it,” he murmurs, arching one eyebrow at you in a manner that you’ve seen before on television, “And all of it is what needs to be done, is it not?”

 

You flop onto the floor by the edge of the bed, pouting. Your math worksheet is pried from your backpack in a grudging manner, but you’re still careful not to crumple it- you  _ hate _ it when your papers get messy. That’s why you will only write with one specific brand of pencil- it’s the only one that has an eraser that erases to your standards. 

 

Cronus teases you for being picky, but he always makes sure there’s enough money in the school budget to get you your pencils. 

 

“But it’s  _ math _ ,” you say, and even that, you will admit is a whine, “I can’t do math. Math is dumb. I don’t get it ever.”

 

It’s weird- you like numbers because numbers are always the same, and they’re easy, and they’re nice, and you love three and six and twelve- those are good numbers. But when it comes time to put them together, it’s like anything that  _ isn’t  _ three or six or twelve just… doesn't work. You don’t  _ understand _ , and not understanding makes you mad. 

 

“What is the problem?” Dualscar says, and you calm. His voice is just… nice. Nice like three and six and twelve, like neatly ordered rows of crayons, like the soft cloth of the cape Cronus lets you sleep with and the smooth texture of steel under your fingers. Like a quiet day reading and peppermint and the salty-bitter taste of fish eggs, which you only get once a year, for your birthday when Cronus takes you for sushi. 

 

You breathe a great big sigh, and you frown down at your paper, and the rows and rows of numbers there. You feel… dumb, and that frustrates you. 

 

“I can’t make the numbers work,” you mumble, “I thought I got it but the teacher changed it up an’ she ain’t taught us the new stuff yet but we gotta do it in homework anyways.”

 

“”Ain’t” isn’t a word,” he reprimands, but it doesn’t really feel like one, “And does this really cause you so much distress? They’re just numbers on a page.”

 

You stand up and breathe in deep again, but this isn’t a calming breath, no- this is a ranting breath. 

 

“If I don’t get this right then I’m gonna get a bad grade,” you say, all in a rush, starting to frantically pace from side to side- six steps one way, heel point turn, six steps the other-, “An’ if I get a bad grade then I’m gonna be confused an’ I’ll be behind an’ then I’ll just get more bad grades an’ I’ll fail math an’ then I’ll have to take it over, an’ I’ll be a  _ failure _ .”

 

“I’m sure you’re being facetious.”

 

_ Fa-ce-tious _ . You don’t know what it means, but it has three syllables. You’ll ask Cronus later.

 

“I don’t wanna fail,” you say, shaking your head, “Failing means I’m  _ stupid _ -”

 

“That’s _enough_.”

 

You go quiet and stop short, frozen. Dualscar has wriggled himself half out from under your bed, and even from his chest up, propped up on his elbows, he’s  _ huge _ . His skin looks mottled and sickly underneath the light from your window, and his eyes are squinted, like he can’t quite stand the bright of the sun; you twitch, unsure of whether to move to close the blinds or stay perfectly, terribly still. 

 

“Child,” he says, with his salted caramel voice, the smooth drip and flow like water from cupped hands, “Failing does not make you a failure. Failing means you try again. Do you understand?”

 

Your mouth opens but words don’t come out. 

 

“Failing means that you are one step closer to your goal. Failing is an opportunity to learn. How can you understand if you do not first fail?”

 

His terror-sharp claws reach out and tap against your worksheet; he shifts it so it’s facing you, and then rolls the pencil towards you to it taps against your foot. 

 

“All great scholars have failed. All great leaders have failed. I have failed, many a time. You cannot exist without failing, but you are not a failure unless you give up because of it. So sit down, and breathe, and focus on your strange paper with your silly numbers.”

 

Your legs drop you down so fast that you squeak when you hit the floor; you pick up your pencil and put a hand on your worksheet and peek up at the monster from under your bangs, watching cautiously as he lowers himself again, slowly shrinking back under your bed till he’s nothing more than a pair of reflecting yellow eyes, with violet, pupilless centers. 

 

“Count out loud,” he murmurs, and you nod, mouth working as you try to pry your tongue back from the cat who stole it from you. 

 

“Sev-ven plus eight,” you say; he makes a soft sound, and his claws tap on the floor, slow and deliberate. 

 

“Tap. Count it out loud. Eight, then seven. Eight… Nine… Ten...”

 

You start with eight, then tap out seven. Fifteen. 

 

You write that down, then move onto the next. It’s easier when you have something to focus on besides just the numbers; the tapping gives you something to count, something to draw your attention to the math, and you manage to work through your homework with minimal difficulty. 

 

You shove the worksheet in your bag when you’re done, a headache poking at your temple, but by then Cronus is calling you downstairs for dinner. But  _ you’re done _ . No more math for the rest of the night, and you grin, reaching out and placing your hands on either side of Dualscar’s large, shaggy head, hugging him with a sort of reckless abandon as you toss your backpack to the side. 

 

“Thank you!” you say, excited, and his strange,  _ el-e-gant  _ fins prick up, swiveling wildly back and forth, as if he can’t decide whether to lay them flat or press them forward, “I’ll get you something from the pantry! Thank you!”

 

And then you have to leave him, scrambling downstairs; you almost trip but you manage to catch yourself at the last minute, much to Cronus’s relief.


End file.
